The flame-gatherers

by Margaret Horton Potter

“Let him remain here. I will care for him. But it is not well that thou shouldst also stay. Go, then, and fear not.”

Fidá made two or three attempts to release himself from the boy’s hold, Churi watching him. Then Fidá shook his head. “He will not suffer me to leave him.”

“I will do it. See.” Churi placed himself immediately in front of the Asra, and laid his hands, with great gentleness, where those of the Mohammedan had been. Ahmed, drowsy with fever, did not notice the change. “Now go, softly,” commanded Churi, in a whisper, and Fidá obeyed.

Such was the beginning of Ahmed’s sickness. It endured for more than five weeks, and, but for Churi’s unceasing care and skill, had lasted scarcely three days. It was, moreover, the beginning of an intimacy between the eunuch and Fidá, which developed with a rapidity and a completeness that surprised them both. During the first few days, when the danger was extreme, no one was allowed to see the sick boy. But after that Fidá was admitted regularly; and, first for the sake of Ahmed, then on his own account, he spent three quarters of his spare time in the sick room. Churi having a private interest in Fidá, he succeeded in making himself so interesting that the slave, though suffering doubly from captivity and from hopeless love, was drawn out of himself by the strength of the other’s personality.

Ahmed’s convalescence was a fruitful period. Churi had returned to the regular zenana duties, modified when there were any sick whom he must attend; and so the hours in which he saw the captive were much fewer, but thereby more prized. Churi early disclosed the fact that he had Arabian blood in his veins; and Fidá, in a passion of yearning for his people, made this almost a symbol of brotherhood, and poured out to his new-found confidant all his life-story, with its fury of battle and its dulness of peace. Churi studied the young man keenly; for just at this time pressure was being brought to bear on him from another quarter, and amazing possibilities began to shape themselves in his imagination. Ahalya, chafing with impatience, longing, and bitterness, in her pretty prison-house, had become imprudent, and told him half of what he already knew.

Churi had high responsibilities when he served the zenana. His duties during the day were light enough; but by night, his was the task to fasten every door and window looking out upon the unguarded court of the zenana; and his night-watch at the inner entrance, in the antechamber connecting the women’s wing with the palace, was between the hours of twelve and two. Here was the trust which he had never betrayed. And here, also, were possibilities which he had never considered. The problem was before him now, however; for his feeling for Fidá grew daily stronger. He was beginning to consider things which, had they been suspected by a single soul in Mandu, would have sent him, and with him Fidá, on the quickest road to death.

Meantime, weeks had gone by. The autumn rains were at hand, and it was more than a month since the Rajah’s men had left for the north on Fidá’s behalf. Daily now their return was looked for; and, with every twelve hours of delay, Fidá grew more wretched. His mind was full of fear. It was not at all out of the nature of his uncle to have murdered the ambassadors for the money they might have with them, or for any fancied disrespect in their demeanor. Had this thing been done, Rai-Khizar-Pál must know it ere long, and then even the meagre joys of captivity would end for him. And at this time Fidá did not want to die. The existence of Ahalya made slavery more than bearable; for while he lived in the same building with her, the hope of seeing her again never quite left him. He loved her. He had told her that he loved her. That fact never failed to bring exhilaration upon him. Even the hope of freedom could not reconcile him to the idea of losing her forever. In his sanguine moments there flitted through his head the wildest plans:—storming the palace at the head of an army, bearing her forth in triumph, and carrying her home with him to Yemen, where they should live together forever in the house of his fathers, in the holy city.

But, in time, these dreams were brought to an end by the return of the messengers from their long journey. On the night of the twenty-fifth of October, Fidá lay asleep in the little box of a room that had been made his own. He had gone to bed early that night, for the Rajah was hunting in the hills, and his services were dispensed with. It was nearly midnight when the slave opened his eyes to find a soldier of the guard standing over him. He started up, and was presently following the man stupidly through rooms and passages till they had come to the audience hall, where the Rajah, dressed in dusty hunting-garb, sat on his daïs, a frown of deepest anger on his brow. In front of him were five men, worn, dishevelled, heavy with sleep. Save for this little group, the vast room was empty. The torches flickered, ghost-like, into shadowy corners. The deep night-stillness was only broken by the rattling of the soldier’s armor and weapons as he walked.

In his first glance at the scene in the hall Fidá, now fully awake, recognized the situation. As his guide stood aside, he walked alone to the foot of the royal divan, and prostrated himself there, kissing the ground before him, in the deepest reverence a Moslem can do. When he had risen again, he lifted his eyes to the conqueror’s face and found the Rajah regarding him solemnly, with something like compassion.

“O King, live forever! Thou hast summoned me.”